


My Time is Timeless Now

by slothy_girl



Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [3]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Appearances by a whole bunch of characters, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, I felt bad for leaving them out before so here they are lol, Implied Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Memories and dreams, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Re:Mind Compliant, Reincarnation, Riku spilling his feelings everywhere, Sort of..., light gore, until it's not i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: “Once,” The God says, quietly, “Once, there was nothing. And then, there was us. I fell in love—we fell in love.” Of course we did, he doesn’t have to say. Riku hears it all the same, because of course, they did. It's inevitable—Sora, any Sora, is so easy to love. And maybe, just maybe, Riku, any Riku, can be too. “When you find him, Riku, and you will find him,” the God's mouth curls ever so slightly at the corners, an inside joke only he knows, “keep him close. Keep him close, and never let him go.”Well, not only him. Riku smirks, just a little bit. In this, at least, he can be confident. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Relationships: Riku/Sora (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643101
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100





	My Time is Timeless Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy in this time of chaos. Here is my meager offering of comfort.
> 
> Beta read at least a billion times by myself. Or, that's what it felt like anyways lol
> 
> Title from, you guessed it, "Sway With Me" by Saweetie and GALXARA.

-

“I always thought I might be bad, now I’m sure that it’s true cuz I think you’re so good and I’m nothing like you. Look at you go. I just adore you. I wish that I knew what makes you think I’m so special.” –Rebecca Sugar, “Love Like You,” _Steven Universe_

-

**|My Time is Timeless Now|**

It’s been a year.

A year of no progress.

No clues.

No hints.

Despite everyone’s best efforts. Nothing.

“We’re not giving up,” Roxas mutters, arms crossed, a mulish expression tight across his face. It softens when Lea looks up to wink at them from across the room where he’s talking to Xion, Naminé, and the Twilight Gang, everyone taking a break from their memory analysis.

But Riku can tell he’s tired. They all are.

“I know.” He smirks, faint and teasing. When Roxas catches it, he rolls his eyes, cheeks the faintest red, but nothing like how Sora’s would get. If there’s one good thing that dealing with this bullshit has done, it’s definitely done wonders for smoothing the various sharp edges between them all, the hurts and distrust. Sora’s not even here, and he still has such an astonishing effect on others.

“Ah, fuck off. It’s not like you’re any better.”

Well, maybe not all their hurts. He grimaces.

Roxas’s glances at him from the corner of his eye, cringing. “Oh, uh, sorry?”

“Nah, it’s… It’s fine.” He’d started it after all. It’s really not, fine that is, or more like _he_ isn’t fine, but he’s trying. Trying to be better, trying to be stronger, to keep up their morale even though he’s been feeling more and more untethered and adrift. But it’s hard. Hope can be a strong motivator. Belief even more so. But all hope is, at a certain point—after days turn to weeks turn to months turn into an entire fucking _year_ —is a deadweight tied around your neck, getting heavier and heavier, strangling, the longer you wait. The longer nothing happens. No matter how much you do, no matter how much of yourself you put into it, it doesn’t feel like enough…

He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have everyone else to rely on in this, even if he gets… frustrated, with them sometimes.

(At least last time, Sora was there, even if he wasn’t awake or cognizant. Riku would take that stupid, sterile pod over this any day.)

“So,” Roxas drags out awkwardly. “You’re heading to the Land of Departure next, right?”

Riku takes the out. “Yeah. I’ll make sure to say hi to everyone for you.” He claps Roxas on the shoulder, pushing him until he staggers in the direction of everyone else.

He whips around, fists clenched. “Hey!”

“See you next week,” Riku says, waving when the others call their goodbyes.

“Yeah, see you too, dick!” Roxas shouts back.

“It’s all been weirdly calm in the Dark World recently,” Terra says, fingers curled contemplatively at his chin. “We’ve been running into fewer and fewer Heartless.”

Besides him, Ventus makes a face, his eyes flashing green in the reflections of the stained glass.

(That’s something they’ve had to get used to, a change that had been so slow and gradual that by the time anyone had noticed, the blue of before was nearly gone. They’d had other priorities, but man, once they noticed, they _noticed_. Riku and Mickey had returned from the Keyblade Graveyard to some pretty frantic, panicked friends.

And though it’s terrible to think, it had been almost nice to have something more immediate to focus on, a problem they could throw themselves into and get results, something to distract from the constant worry, the constant pounding of failure. It was a change of pace, something they could actually fix—and it served to restore some of their confidence when they finally solved the riddle.

Of course, it turned out to not be a problem at all, and now the color change is just a really easy way to differentiate between him and Roxas, though more and more differences seem to pop up every day—between all the people who had taken shelter in Sora’s heart actually, now that they’re completely separate from him.

Now that he’s not around at all.)

“Vanitas thinks they’re gathering somewhere.”

That’s another things they’ve had to get used to.

Riku blinks in surprise. The last time he’d heard about their resident bad boy, he’d had been more likely to sneer and hiss obscenities at everyone or just straight up ignore them than any sort of coherent conversation. It’s been a couple months since he’d shown up, unconscious and half-dead, on the Land of Departure’s doorstep though, and he hasn’t tried to leave as far as Riku knows.

(Not that he knows all that much, honestly. Just some of the basics. Their first meeting had been a couple weeks after the guy had woken up and it had been… weird, to say the least.

Riku had literally stumbled into him, catching him by the elbow to keep him upright in an instinct honed over years of keeping Sora from face planting into every available surface—the fact that he looks so much like Sora, all button nose and untamable hair, wasn’t lost on Riku. And he’d waited, starring wide eyed at this Sora imposter, for the panic to bubble up in his veins or for his brain to start jumping to all the possible conclusions for Sora to have come back to them like _this_ , skin almost as light as Riku’s and eyes so brown they were nearly black.

Instead, something had tugged at his heart, something that said _this is not who you are looking for_ , deep and resonating out to settle in his bones, the fizzle pop of that peripheral sense like static in Riku’s ears.

And in the next instant, the guy had wretched out of Riku’s grasp, snarling, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

Riku jerked back. “Oh, um—”

But he’d already disappeared through a random doorway. He thought it might have been a storage closet, but he couldn’t be sure, and he wasn’t about to check.

He never did figure out what that was all about.

He’s not sure he’d ever understand.)

That must count for something though, that Vanitas has had every chance to leave and hasn’t? Must _mean_ something. And now this? “He actually talks to you all now?”

Ventus shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “To me, yeah. Sometimes.”

Riku raises an eyebrow, catching the frowns on Terra and Aqua’s faces. “That’s… good?”

“Yeah.” Ventus’s mouth splits into a grin. “He’s actually pretty funny, when he wants to be.”

“O-oh…”

“Anyways,” Aqua says, pointedly, “We’re not sure if he’s right, but we can’t rule out the possibility either.” She almost looks bothered to admit it, nose crinkling up, whether because it’s Vanitas’s suggestion or because of the implications of if he’s right, Riku’s sure it’s probably a mix. “We’re heading back tomorrow to scout the southwest region again. When I was there before, I fell into a Darkside spawning ground. We haven’t found it yet in any of our searching, and I’m hoping we can this time. It might hold some answers.”

“Do you need back up?” He asks, half hoping she’ll say yes. He doesn’t really want to go back to the Dark World, but it doesn’t feel like he’s doing all that much now, shuttling from group to group for updates. Combing through various records and texts in various worlds. He wants to feel more useful. Less empty.

At this, Aqua smiles, crooked and tired but still so confident. “No, I don’t think so. We’ve got this.”

Riku tries not to be disappointed. “Okay.”

“Where to next? Master Yen Sid’s?” Terra asks when the silence has gone on a beat too long. “Mickey, Donald, and Goofy should be getting back from Corona soon, I think.”

“Nah.” Riku shakes his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Radiant Gardens. Maybe Cid and the Restoration Committee have had some luck.”

Ventus’s mouth twists. “Maybe.”

“Well, good luck. Let us know if you need anything.” Terra shakes his hand.

“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” Aqua says, patting him on the shoulder.

Riku only startles just the littlest bit on his way out, stuttering out a surprised, “Hey…” at where Vanitas is leaning against the wall right outside the buildings entrance, expression blank. Riku can still hear the others talking and wonders if Vanitas was listening in. It almost doesn’t look like it though—his gaze is too distant, his attention undivided on the horizon line. Riku stands there for a second, awkwardly, but just as he’s about to do something crazy, like maybe touch Vanitas’s shoulder and ask if he’s okay (Riku’s got a soft spot for those fallen to the darkness, what can he say? Not that that means he trusts him or anything, necessarily, and no, it’s not because he looks like a sharper, angrier Sora), he breaks out of it and notices Riku.

His face morphs from blank to pissed off before shuttering into a scowl. With a scoff, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his tight pants and trudges inside, back hunched, almost pointedly avoiding any sort of contact with Riku as he goes by.

He watches him go, hears Ventus’s cheerful, “Vanitas!”

Vanitas’s grumbled, “Fuck off, Ventus.”

“Vanitas—” comes Aqua’s voice, chiding and not nearly as sharp as it used to be, and Terra’s “I think stir fry would be good for dinner.”

Riku shakes his head.

He’s glad they’ve struck up some kind of balance, tenuous as it is.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Riku asks, laid out tense and stiff on the bed they’ve commandeered in one of the rooms above the Restoration Committee’s meeting area.

“Yes, dear,” Fairy Godmother says, patting at the blanket thrown half over him.

Riku grimaces up at the ceiling, thankful, at least, that Aerith and Leon had the foresight to keep Yuffie occupied while they did this. He wasn’t exactly keen on an audience, and in some ways, she’s nosier than Sora. He’s having a hard enough time believing this—the whole, his dreasm being the key things, and all that—as it is. Is it really this easy? Has it really been starring at them in the face all this time? All along? He’s been dreaming of Sora in one way or another for years.

It can’t be this simple.

It never is for Riku.

“And are you sure…” Riku stutters. “I mean, no offense, but my dreams? Really?”

At this, Fairy Godmother raises a perfectly arched brow, hands on her hips in a gesture scarily reminiscent of his mother. “Are you saying you don’t believe me, dear?”

He quickly averts his gaze, heat flushing across his face. His ears practically pulse with it. “No, ma’am.”

Sha laughs. “Oh, Riku dear.” With a flourish of her wrist to get her robe situated, she settles down on the chair next to the bed, wand held aloft. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so,” he says, but really, he’s not so sure. What if this turns out to be another dead end? What even is there to try next, after this?

“Now, just focus on Sora, okay dear?”

“Okay.” He closes his eyes, fingers knotted together on his stomach, and thinks of Sora.

He thinks about the goofy kid he used to be, so eager for attention, constantly asking questions, constantly bugging Riku for this and that. Riku, tie my shoes. Riku, eat my crusts. Riku, help me up this tree. And of course, Riku did, because he asked, because it was Sora—not that Riku didn’t tease or make it difficult when he felt like it. But he always did as asked, in the end.

He thinks about the lazy teen sleeping on the beach, all knobby knees and pointy elbows and ears that stuck out a bit, oblivious in so many ways, but so very kind. Too kind, maybe. Too forgiving, definitely. How even after their home had fallen to darkness, he never stopped helping others. Never stopped looking to the bright side of things. How stubborn and determined he was. How he’d shown, brilliant and strong and so grown compared to the boy that had slept in the sand not even a month prior, when he fought against Ansem. His face, twisted and distressed, when they closed the Door to Darkness together.

He thinks of desperately searching for Sora, of finding him, of watching him sleep for a year, finally growing into those awkward parts that always stuck out, and then watching over him while he traveled. Of all the connections he forged and the friends he made and the people who smiled because of him. His steady sense of justice, his faith in his heart, in Riku, in _them_. How well they fought together, an extension of the other. His willingness to reside in the Dark World with Riku forever, like he’d be happy to do so because _Riku was there_ , simple as that.

He thinks about the dream worlds they saved together, working together systematically, filling in the gaps the other left without even needing to think about it. Trusting Sora, having Sora trust _him_. The way their hearts harmonized together, something so lovely and magical, Riku hums it quietly to himself sometimes without even realizing. The softness of Sora’s face while he slept. How he’d needed _Riku_ , how he’d been Riku’s friend for longer than he could ever remember, and how, when they’d been young, that had meant one thing, but now, years later, it meant _something else_.

But most of all, he thinks about the man he can see Sora becoming. One of immense kindness and determination. Of smiles and laughter and finding the little joys even in times of strife, still that goofy kid at heart, and so very endearing. One of strength and endurance against even the harshest odds. A man whose heart has never failed him, even when he himself thought that perhaps it had, only to prove, again and again, that he’s stronger than he thinks. A man Riku knows he can rely on, who he can put all his faith into and it will never be misplaced. One that he will always happily follow, can always trust to have his back.

How Sora had become Riku’s light without him even noticing. How he became his strength, his to protect, to love—

Riku opens his eyes.

It’s the city of his dreams, all cold concrete and warm neon lights and buildings reaching up like metal fingers in the inky black sky. He can just barely pick out the dull glows of a handful of stars. He can only imagine what it’s like to live here, wonders if it’s always night here the way Twilight Town lives perpetually in that haze right before sunset.

If anyone even does.

It’s so strangely quiet. Ominously so.

He sighs, palming the back of his head. “Well, better get looking, I guess.”

Time passes differently here, Riku quickly realizes.

He looks everywhere. With the area he first appeared as the center, he systematically traces a path outwards, plotting out concentric circles, expanding little by little, further and further, running through alleyways, scaling up buildings, grinding along rails. He doesn’t want to miss a thing. Not that there seems to be much to miss. He doesn’t run into a single person the entire time, doesn’t see or hear any signs of life, just the cold silence of the inanimate, distant and unfeeling. Even worse, perhaps, is the feeling he’s already seen all of this. Every building, every pole, every stupid street light and puddle. Like he’s already searched here before and come up empty.

It’s a bit much, if he lets himself think about it too much.

Better not.

(It’s a tall order to ask, considering how much he loves to beat his head against things until he has a migraine, but there are more important things to worry about right now.)

He takes a small break against the chilled metal of a structure made almost entirely out of glass, breathing deeply against the anxiety threatening to knot tight around his throat. It’s only been a couple hours, maybe, and really, the amount of ground he’s covered at the very least speaks to how far he’s come from the cocky brat sprinting like a caged animal along the shoreline of the Islands. Except he takes a glance at his Gummiphone, and oh yeah, time moves a thousand times faster in dreams than in real life.

Shit.

Does Fairy Godmother’s spell have a time limit the same way there was a limit for his Mark of Mastery Exam? How would that work if he and Sora are in the same sleeping world? Would he just drop and never wake up?

Well, fuck.

The Gummiphone creaks in his grip.

Probably should have asked her more about the logistics of this whole endeavor, but it’s too little too late, and now he’s got to just deal with it. Agh.

He hates going into things blind, but he can’t say he’s also not used to it.

Shaking his head with a frustrated huff, he pockets the phone before he accidently breaks it, and keeps going, a little more frantic now, maybe, in his searching. Tries not to let his faith waver—he _will_ find Sora this time, godsdamn it.

It’s already been too long.

He won’t leave it be any longer.

Riku’s halfway between two towering buildings, caught mid-jump, when he starts to get that itch between his shoulder blades, that buzzing in his ears, that preternatural instinct that someone is watching him, closely. It’s a familiar feeling, one he recognizes from the blurred memories of a hundred half-remembered dreams over the last year. Twisting in midair, he catches sight of a figure standing off several rooftops away. It’s easy as anything to flip over and catch himself against the side of one building, pushing off the glass face with a sense of renewed determination. Whoever they are, Riku’s sure they either know something or might lead him in the right direction. He’s over searching aimlessly.

He narrows the distance quickly, anxious. Maybe they’ll run when he gets too close? Maybe they’ll disappear, a simple figment of Riku’s imagination? But he needn’t have worried. He dives off the last ledge, tucking into a roll at the last second. He looks up, half crouched, half ready to start sprinting, muscles tense—

He blinks.

The man, a hand resting idly on a cocked hip, raises an almost exasperated eyebrow. There’s something familiar about that look, that gesture, that _face_ —it’s a little bit off, a little wrong, almost mocking in a way that distinctly reminds him of _Sora_ , of all people. But Riku can’t put his finger on how. The silence spools out between them.

“Are you done?” The man finally asks.

“You’ve been watching me.” It’s not a question. Riku stands, cautiously makes his way closer, Braveheart sitting just a finger twitch away.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The man shrugs, frowning. Doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t make to run either.

He’s not sure what that means.

Riku stops in front of him, still on guard, but it’s not like the guy has done anything even vaguely threatening yet. There’s something weird about the way it feels to tilt his head _up_ to keep looking him in the eye—such interesting colors, those eyes—a dissonance, an awkwardness, like maybe he should be titling his head _down_ , but also not? He raises his own eyebrow. “What’s your name?”

“Yozora. Who are you?”

“I’m Riku.” He offers a tentative hand, searching those eyes for anything—recognition or secrets or something. Nothing. A beat—maybe he won’t take his hand at all, maybe he shouldn’t even have offered—and Yozora takes it.

A jolt somewhere in his chest—his grip automatically tightening.

He knows _these_ hands—

The shape of them, the feel, the strength of them—even if they’re a little off, a little wrong, just a little too far to the left, but it’s there. And now that he’s looking—eyes darting across that familiar face—there, in the shape of his mouth, in the blue of his left eye, and the slant of his eyebrow—and it slips out, unbidden, without Riku even realizing until it’s already a sweet, sorrowful taste on his tongue, “Sora?”

Yozora jerks back, then forward, expression collapsing into something fierce and serious. A hand shoots out and knots in his shirt, drags him in close, their noses almost touching. The hairs on back of Riku’s neck stand on end, but it doesn’t feel like danger for all that Riku can tell this man is _dangerous_. It feels like recognition, just on the edges of his understanding, the cusp of knowing, just out of reach. “You know Sora?”

Uh, wait—what? Panicking, Riku sputters back, “ _You_ know Sora?”

Yozora’s eyes narrow, guarded. Riku can practically see the hackles raised, the way every muscle must be tensed, and that’s when Riku gets it—yeah, there are things, unexplainable coincidences, that remind him of Sora, but the person Yozora actually reminds him of—from the spiked silver of his hair to the contained, frenetic energy of his reaction… is _himself_.

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he even _should_. If that’s one thing Riku has learned over the years, it’s that some things just can’t or shouldn’t be explained. But if this guy _is_ like him—however that is—then it’s all too easy to recognize that defensiveness for what it is, that he’s _protecting_ —

He grabs the hand still clenched in his shirt, glaring into that distorted mirror image. “Where is he?”

Yozora stares at him for a moment, two, three. He must find whatever it was he was looking for—and with only seconds of Riku’s patience left to spare—because he roughly pushes Riku back. He stumbles, gets his footing back easily enough, Braveheart jumping into being in a flash of light and clang of metal.

He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even draw a weapon. “He’s not here,” he says, something almost pitying in his expression, something all too knowing. “Not anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We fought, and I lost. He got to go back.”

Riku almost regrets not just attacking the guy outright—fighting first and asking questions later when he’s got the guy on the ropes, when he has the upper hand. As it is now, Riku’s the one caught unawares. “What—”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s out of my reach, now,” he says and shakes his head, brows furrowed. His gaze catches Riku's, intense, vibrant, and still so much like Sora’s for all that the face looking back at him is so much like his own. “But he’s not out of yours.”

Riku can’t quite hold back the bitter scoff—he’s sure there’s something there, about being honest with yourself even when you can’t be honest with your friends, and Riku’s done his fair share of pushing down all his worries, all his frustrations, everything that wasn’t conducive to _finding Sora_. He clutches onto Braveheart, a lifeline, chest aching. “I don’t see how that could be. It’s been a year.”

“And yet here you are.”

“But it took a year to get here!” Riku shouts, shrinking back into himself as the words seem to echo out across the skyline. Quietly, he looks away, but only for a moment—don’t drop his guard, can’t drop his guard—and says, “And instead of Sora, I find _you_.”

Yozora huffs. “It can never be simple with them, Riku. I thought you’d have figured that out by now, if you’re here.” There’s a smirk, lurking just barely in the corners of his mouth. “It’s just how they are.”

The ache settles a little bit at that, some of that frustration and anger bleeding out. Because of course everything with Sora would be complicated and difficult, even across universes, across worldliness, if that’s what this is. But it’s worth it—Gods, Riku would do anything for him, be anything, go to the ends of the worlds for him if he asked. And he can see it reflected in Yozora too, that he feels the same for his Sora, for any Sora. If there are any universal constants out there, Riku being a mess over Sora sure seems to be one of them. He lowers Braveheart but doesn’t dismiss it, laughing a little, though it’s not all that happy. “Yeah, yeah. I guess you’re right.” But still. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

“I can help with that.” Yozora hums, cutting Riku off before he can ask about just how exactly he’s planning on doing that, “You know, your Sora’s pretty strong.” And he smiles, for just a second before his face shifts into something somber and serious, but it was there, Riku had seen it, something soft and tender and proud—Riku recognizes it easily, is sure it’s one that has been on his own face plenty of times over the years, probably even before Riku knew what it was. It was fucking weird, seeing it on someone else. Glowing lights suddenly start to float up from the ground. “Find him. Protect him. And if you don’t, I’ll do it for you.”

“Hey—wait!”

A flash of light, bright and blinding.

Instead of the cityscape, of cold concrete and a nearly starless sky, Riku is standing on the purple stained glass of his heart station, swallowed in the middle of an endless abyss, alone.

“Thanks, I think,” he says.

Over the past year, Riku has dived to his heart station exactly once.

Only once.

It had been the night before Kairi had returned to them.

(He knows it’s no coincidence.)

He’d been sleeping on the beach of the play island, taking a page out of Sora’s book, trying to relax, to push down all those anxious thoughts that brewed up if he wasn’t paying strict attention. (He _did_ believe in Sora, would always believe in him, would always trust him, but he’s also always going to worry, and in some ways, that had only gotten worse once he’d realized just how much Sora meant to him.)

There was a jerk in his sternum, painful, searing, like he’d been pierced clean through the chest, and he gasped awake, clutching frantically where the pain emanated. Rolled over to curl around it, tears trekking down his cheeks from eyes clenched shut, sand gritty and irritating against his skin. He doesn’t really remember what happened after that, just that when he became aware again, it was to an ache sitting bone deep in his chest and the dead, chilled end of what was once a warm and lively thread—Sora and his Dream Eater link.

He’d barely even gotten his bearings before he dove, panicked, with the expectation that he’d at least see Sora’s station below his, blue and shining, just like always, or maybe it would be shattered to pieces, all brilliant, broken shards, or maybe gray and lifeless—

But there’d been nothing. Nothing at all.

Sora was _gone_.

Riku hasn’t been back here since. Until now.

Already, he can tell things are different. He’s not sure if that’s because Yozora is the one who sent him here, or because all the worry and frustration and desperation and heartbreak has just finally taken its toll on him.

A strange fog hovers close to the glass. The images below, of what little he can see, are blurred and hazy and indistinct in way that’s near incomprehensible. He can just barely make out the purple glow, the ends of his silver hair. There’s at least one crack that he knows of spidering straight through to the center that he only finds by accidently stepping on it, the glass crunching beneath his boot. His stomach drops to his feet. He carefully steps back, shoulders hunched. His head and heart are aching. Worse the longer he’s here, the louder that buzzing sound grinds in his ears, that peripheral sense, that inner ear tingling.

Gods, what a mess. What a fucking disaster.

What would Sora think, if he saw all this?

Fuck.

He doesn’t even know where to start. Should he try and fix the glass?

How would he even _do_ that?

Then, a noise, soft and musical like wind chimes, to his left, just barely audible over the buzzing. And where there was originally nothing, unending, there is a door. A sign? Riku can hope. Just thinking about all the glass that needs to be fixed is stressing Riku out and he can’t even see how bad the damage is. He carefully picks his way across the glass, wincing as he finds more and more cracks splintering around. He’ll have to pick glass out of the soles of his shoes, at this rate.

The door is old and almost plain, made of wood that could have once been stained dark and polished, but is now dull and graying and covered in a layer of dust. The metal of the handle, an old-fashioned brass loop, is cold to the touch and creaks ominously when Riku grasps it. Rust flakes off and disappears in the fog curling around his shins.

“Here goes nothing,” Riku says, pushing the door open and stepping into the abyss beyond it—

He’s on a balcony, and there’s a beautiful man with a long, braided ponytail leaning against the railing, looking out at the green land stretching out beneath them. The man glances up, noticing him, and suddenly grins, eyes a bright, flashing amber, a sun shining out from inside him—and the memories come flooding back in a rush.

“You,” he breathes.

It’s been months since Riku has been to the Keyblade Graveyard. Everyone had written off his strange episode as stress related when he got back. He’d been advised to rest and was encouraged to stay in his room at the Tower for a whole week after the fact. But Master Yen Sid and Merlin had kept giving him strange, indecipherable looks, and every mission since had kept him clear away from the world, like they thought he wouldn’t pick up on the fact that they wanted to keep him as far away from that place as possible. Not that he didn’t agree with them. There had definitely been something going on, something off, and the discomfort he felt just seeing the broken remains of the world on his Gummi’s viewscreen was enough for him to steer clear.

And now he knows why.

He _remembers_.

The man’s grin softens into a smile, gentle and so full of love Riku’s throat closes up to see it. “There you are,” he says, and his voice is a little deeper than what Riku is used to, has an accent Riku’s never heard before, but it’s Sora’s voice, Sora’s face, Sora’s hand outstretched like the statue’s had been.

Riku hesitates, steps forward, but is stopped when a figure _passes right through him_. All Riku sees of him, at first, is the length of his silver hair and the weird white robes he’s wearing, but he turns and Riku sees his _face_.

It’s _him_.

Older with broader shoulders and eyes glowing dark and vivid, light swirling through them, oil slick—but still him, still a Riku, all the same.

Just like Yozora.

“Did you miss me?” the man asks as he clasps Sora’s hand in his, brings it to press a gentle kiss to the back. Riku watches, wide eyed, mouth agape. Heat flushes through his cheeks, seeping. Should he look away? He wants too—but he also really, really _doesn’t_.

What in the hell is going on?

Sora’s eyes have squinted into little half-moons, the glow of his eyes more blinding than before. “Always,” he says and drags the taller man down by the neck into a kiss Riku can feel down to his toes—

And he’s falling, colors rushing past in wide swipes, voices whispering indistinctly in his ears, shapes gradually solidifying into place as he lands, hard and jarring, on his feet.

He’s in a field, and it’s sunny. In the distance, there’s a castle rising high and comfortable into the sky, the colorful town built up around it obviously lively and happy even from here if the cheerful shouts and music is any indication.

All around him, flowers bloom in more shades than Riku even knew existed, reds and blues and purples and oranges. And in the middle of it all, the two men from before sit, leaning together against an old, towering tree flush with green. Their heads are tilted into each other, resting, relaxed. Sora laughs at something the other man—the other Riku—says, turning his face into his shoulder to muffle it, though whatever it is the man said is lost to the gentle breeze brushing through the field. Riku can see the way their hands are tangled, fingers notched together and taking up all the spaces the other leaves.

They don’t notice him at all.

Riku heaves a shuddering sigh.

(He doesn’t know if he should be happy, that a Riku got his Sora and they’re living happily ever after, or sad since it’s looking less and less like Riku will ever even get to _see_ his Sora again, let alone the chance to make him laugh or hold his hand again under some false, platonic pretense. He thinks it’s a bit of a mix.)

He takes a step closer—

The ground opens up beneath him, and he’s falling again, stomach dropping, the scene fading away into smears of color and whispers before sliding back into focus.

This time, they’re in what looks like a throne room, for all that it’s the least pretentious or obnoxious throne room Riku has ever seen in any of his world traveling. The closest comparison he can think of would be King Mickey’s, but even that’d not even close to the sheer, simple existence of this room. Not to say it’s not still fancy to some degree, but… The room is small. There is no throne, no raised stairs. There’s a single, wooden chair, obviously hand carved and well-loved, and it’s situated in the middle with hand-woven tapestries hanging from the walls in rich dyed colors. It’s cozy and warm and the sun’s rays reach inside, gentle fingers caressing the stone and lighting the whole room up.

But then, in a way, it makes total sense, Riku thinks, considering who the ruler is.

Sora sits upon the chair, alone, leg crossed and jiggling on his knee, tongue stuck out as he reads through a scroll of paper. Riku, relatively sure now that he’s stuck as some permeable bystander, cautiously makes his way to his side. He peers over Sora’s shoulder at whatever it is he’s reading. It’s illegible to him, for just a moment, but then he blinks and it’s like the entire language has been dumped unceremoniously into his brain and he has to shake his head against the brief dizziness, the double vision, that passes over him. It’s a request for an audience from someone that calls themself the Master of Masters. There’s something almost familiar about that name, but nothing immediately comes to mind. He leans in closer, catches the deep scent of what can only be described as wood and light—sweet as honey, earthy like a forest. It reminds him of _his_ Sora, though Sora always smelled more of sand and sun and brine—a fisherman’s son through and through, for all that he also was absolute ass at catching fish.

“There you are,” comes warm and fond from the other side of the chair, and Riku skitters back, guiltily—he never even heard his counterpart come in. Did he even come in? Was he here the whole time? What the hell? He knows his hearing is fine—he can still hear the muffled chatter and steps of people in the halls as they walk by outside the closed door. It’s like he just phased in from thin air.

The older man kneels down at Sora’s feet, fingers curling around his knee. “Anything interesting?”

Sora groans and tosses the scroll aside, leaning forwards to cradle the man’s face in his hands. “No. It’s all boring.”

The man laughs, presses a quick kiss to the heel of Sora’s hand, and asks, eyes glittering, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Agh, yeah, I guess so,” Sora says on a sigh, though he’s clearly fighting a smile as he uses his hold to pull the other man into a couple fish kisses, quick as winking, little smacking things. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Riku’s not sure he’ll ever get used to the way they’re so free and casual with their affection.

He’s used to Sora’s brand of free and unbounded friendliness, all grasping hands and oblivious possession, but Riku has a hard enough time knowing if he’s allowed to touch Sora’s shoulder out of comfort or if that’s tipping too far outside the realm of friendship. He second guesses himself a lot. Is grateful for Sora’s guiding hands when he hesitates a moment too long. But he can’t help but get the feeling that Sora’s overcompensating sometimes, with his over the top hugs or how he just loves to grab Riku by the arm or hand to drag him around where he wants him.

(And sure, he could easily break that hold, but just like when they were kids and Sora would clutch his hand in his sweaty palms, he would never dream of it. Even when he was jealous and angry and having a rough time, he would always welcome any touch Sora would give him.)

The floor drops out, and he falls.

Riku falls.

And he falls.

And he falls.

He watches the two men laugh and smile. Watches them kiss. Watches them curl up and cuddle in a bed that he quickly realizes is theirs. Plays awkward, third wheel on their dates into town. Nearly has a brain aneurysm the first time he falls in on them having, apparently, absolutely mind blowing sex—so great, whatever power they have (and it’s a lot, Riku knows, can practically taste it on his tongue, spicy and thick as cinnamon) nearly destroys their room in the process—ripped curtains, broken furniture, paintings torn from the walls. He spends a lot of time with his face pressed flushed and hot in his sweaty hands, half-hard and desperately trying not to look as debris gets tossed around and through him, because apparently, although he’s basically a glorified ghost, he can’t leave whatever room his counterpart is in—and he’s _tried_ —fuck.

They help each other with their hair and bathe together in sweet smelling salts. Do stupid, domestic, mundane things together. They talk to each other about anything and everything, always so warm and fond and familiar. The pet names they call each other (and more than the sex, it’s the pet names that get to Riku the most. Gods, the first time he heard his counterpart call Sora “my heart,” he thought he’d actually, honestly implode. What a fucking sap—he wishes it were him). How they’re always together except for the few times the other man goes off to visit neighboring villages to check in, Sora sometimes in tow, but not always. How they interact with the people who live in the castle, the people of the towns. Hundreds of them, and Sora and his counterpart know the name of every single one, it seems. How everyone loves the two of them, though it could never hold a candle to how much they love each other.

Everyone is always happy. Or if they’re not happy, they might only be a little annoyed because of something minor like a papercut or someone burning the chicken for dinner by accident. But that’s it. There’s no Heartless. No Nobodies. There’s magic, but it’s never used for anything bad, and it’s only ever really small spells—summoning water to do the dishes, using a Fire to start the stove. It’s always sunny, and it never rains—Riku’s not even sure the sun ever even _sets_ —and the flowers are always blooming. Always. The two men _never seem to age_ —and that’s something Riku thinks idly about from time to time, as he falls, and falls, and falls. For all that years and years are definitely passing between visions, because the _people_ are definitely changing, definitely aging—and nothing _terrible_ ever seems to be happening wherever, whenever Riku ends up.

It’s almost as bad as the Islands, before they fell to Darkness. But at least the Islands had night and stars.

Because that’s another thing he’s noticed. This place doesn’t have any, except for the sun, but he can tell it’s just a sun and not a world spinning nearby. Even the cityscape of his dreams had a couple visible stars, visible worlds just waiting to be explored.

There’s a knot of dread that starts growing somewhere around the twentieth vision—the two men are huddled up on the window seat of their bedroom together, reading, relaxed, happy—how this all seems a little too great, a little too perfect.

And he’s right.

Riku falls and lands, easy as anything after so much practice.

His counterpart is by himself, this time, and he’s frowning down at a particular patch of foliage, expression serious and concerned. And that’s when Riku catches the scent hanging in the air: sulfur, nauseating and sour. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see the weird, faint curls of smoke peeling away from the leaves of a bush that has clearly seen better days, from the wilting flowers, the yellowing grasses. Plants that have never been anything but bright and lively are dying. The shadows wavering underneath them are darker, lengthening.

Darkness.

And it’s clear the man knows what this all means, if the way he narrows his eyes and furrows his brow is any indication. And in a move that Riku has never seen before, the man gestures and the Darkness _seeps_ up and out and dissipates into thin air. The plants shake and bristle and bleed back to a living color, but still, the frown does not leave the other man’s face.

Riku peers closer, hand making an aborted move to touch even though it’d go right through if he tried. (Except he can sit on a chaise in the bedroom without falling through? Riku’s given up trying to figure out the odds and ends of the rules for these visions; sometimes, with logic like this, there’s really no logic to it at all. The only thing that seems to be consistent is that he can’t interact with people—they pass right on through him, always, without fail—and he can’t use magic. No spells, no summoning his Keyblade). But it’s hard to remember that sometimes. “The hell…?”

But the man says nothing, and there’s nothing even there for Riku to see, anymore.

Riku falls.

While the happiness and love was unfamiliar, for all that Riku has hoped and fantasized about it in the past, the visions he stands watch for now play out in a film reel all too familiar for Riku to take. It’s like watching his descent into Darkness from afar: a disaster, a trash fire, good intentions twisted in on themselves until all Riku could do was crash and burn, taking down everything with him and falling apart.

(And it does.

Fall apart, that is.

It’s kind of sad, how unsurprised he is.

Seems no matter who he is (or isn’t), he doesn’t change. He always has to go and try to fuck up the best thing he’s ever had.)

He watches the way his counterpart’s worries increase, how he starts spending more and more time away, patrolling the edges of their world, trying to quell the Darkness clawing in, bit by bit. And bit by bit, it latches in, branching out, despite all of his efforts. He changes his hair style, tight and bound, and it makes him think of the men of The Land of Dragons, somber and gearing up for battle, except there’s nothing really to do battle with yet.

But with the way things are looking, he’ll get his chance soon.

Riku watches him pull away from Sora, probably out of some misguided attempt at protecting him, out of some sort of self-righteous reasoning. But in doing so, he can see the way this Sora smiles less, that when he does, it’s tense and strained, stiff, because of course, of course he would notice. How could he not? He falls in on more than one petty spat between the two of them, notices the way they hardly ever touch anymore.

They still have sex, rough and frustrated and biting, clawing. A means of taking things out on the other, a means to an end. A conversation that goes in one ear and out the other. But gone are the tender, easy touches, the warm caresses, the kisses just because they can.

And that, more than anything, is a pretty good indication of just how far these two Gods have fallen.

“Can’t you see what you’re doing to him? To the both of you? Why don’t you just tell him?” Riku’s voice rings out in the silent field where his counterpart is doggedly easing out coil after coil of Darkness. But Riku can see the strain this is putting on him, the stress, his skin porcelain skin paler and more sallow than ever, his eyes burning low like banked coals in his face—even Gods have their limits. Even worse, perhaps, is the way Riku can tell the Darkness is getting to him. It has a way of whispering to you—it’s a bitch like that—persistent, bargaining, threatening, laying out your worst fears, your darkest wishes. “You’re stronger _with_ him. Why are you pushing him away?”

But of course, his words fall on deaf ears.

And of course, he already knows the answer.

(But he also wonders if _age_ has anything to do with it.

When the both of you are beings so old and time seems to stretch out near infinitely, what does it matter if you’re heartbroken or angry or hiding something for a day or one hundred? There’s still plenty of time to sit down and talk, to make amends, plenty of time to explain. Slow to action, slow to apologize, stagnant, static, unchanging.

Even a decade could easily be a single beat in the vastness of their pulses.

Somehow, Riku thinks that makes things worse.)

Riku’s there when Sora _finally_ breaks down, finally calls his counterpart right out, eyes blazing and _pissed_ like Riku has rarely ever seen, in this Sora or his own. Because, see, Sora is one of _those_ people: he gets annoyed, he gets frustrated, but it flares quick and it doesn’t take long for it to fizzle out. An apology is all it takes to ease the sting, and sometimes not even that. But when he gets _mad_ , legitimately, hissing, spitting, bruising mad—it burns harsh and bright and lingering. He’s only ever seen Sora this mad once before, and it took a week of the cold shoulder and a significant amount of groveling and sincerity on his part to get back into Sora’s good graces.

But this Sora, _this Sora is a God._

Goosebumps break out across his skin, shivering, the air heavy and dense around them, suffocating under the cosmic pressure of Sora’s fury. He gasps against it, his lungs burning, the air sucked right out of them. He clutches at the balcony railing, trying to stay upright and failing, choking, drowning.

“Why?” Sora asks.

Through the black spots swimming in his vision, he sees the way the other man steels himself, the way he turns away when this should have been the time to give in. The way he doesn’t say anything at all, just walks away like it’s nothing, like he’s not turning away from the best damn thing he has.

Riku’s heart drops, clenches his watering eyes shut against the way Sora’s face crumples, defeated, the way it goes worryingly blank. The windows above them shatter as the air depressurizes instantly, glass raining down all around them. Below them, someone shouts in startled, pained surprise.

(He blacks out before he falls, this time.

When he wakes up, crumpled at his brooding counterpart’s feet, there’s a spiking headache lancing behind his eyes. His brain is fuzzy, thoughts slow and groggy. Grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, he curses the man above him.

Not being able to do any magic at all sucks.)

There are perpetual dark circles under both of their eyes, now, and they only grow deeper, bruising. Those petty spats turn into something darker, more violent. Arguments between _them_ are like nothing Riku’s ever seen. If their sex messed up their room, their fights tear down entire walls, topple whole buildings, destroy huge swaths of land worse than the Darkness ever could.

People get hurt.

People start getting scared.

But it’s all for nothing, all of this shit, the hiding, the secrets, the overbearing, smothering attempt at protection—useless, because the next vision Riku falls into is of the Master of Masters, lean and mysterious in his black, Organization cloak (because _of fucking course_ ), breaking the news to Sora, his counterpart a stiff-spined statue just behind his chair—still ever the diligent shadow, when he deigns to be around, despite the resentment oozing up between them. “But fear not, my friends,” the Master of Masters says. “I am having something forged, which I hope might help us in this time of crisis.”

Sora’s tired, that much is clear to Riku. It’s been ages since he last saw him smile, and Riku never wished more than right now that he could offer some modicum of comfort. A hand on his shoulder, a hug—Gods, anything. It hurts to see him this way. Instead, all he can do is bear witness. What _bullshit_.

“Right.” Sora’s voice is rough, devoid of emotion. “Of course. Thank you.”

Riku isn’t sure how he should feel, when he lays eyes on the twin Kingdom Keys.

They look exactly like the ones Mickey and Sora, his Sora, wield. Exactly. Like. Those. And isn’t that just the biggest godsdamned coincidence, huh?

(He’s starting to get the picture that it’s really _not_.)

He starts noticing other things.

The way the townsfolk whisper amongst themselves now with shadowed expressions and sneers, the way they scatter whenever either man gets too close. There’s an anger in them that wasn’t there before, a bitterness, no longer so happy and carefree. He sees, too, the way they look at the Keyblades, the hunger, the curiosity. Catches snippets of conversation, how they’ve started trying to craft blades of their own, but still they want for the ones carried by the men who rule over them.

The Darkness encroaches further and further inland every day, sucking the life out of everything it touches. He hasn’t heard of anyone succumbing to it yet—plenty of people are being affected, sure, but he hasn’t seen any sign of the Heartless.

Riku figures it’s only a matter of time.

“It’s all going to end soon, isn’t it? One way or another,” he says, quietly, arms crossed, nails biting into skin as he looks out from the window at the dying countryside. He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or to the man sitting hunched over on the window seat beside him. This used to be _their_ room, but he hasn’t seen either of them use it for anything since a fight resulted in a wall collapsing across the bed. Shards of mirror glitter across the floor.

He’s got a pretty good idea about this world, about what these visions might mean, for him, for the worlds he knows, drawing connections, piecing together things Master Yen Sid and Mickey and the Organization and Xehanort have said, what they _haven’t_ said, that knot of dread coiling tighter and tighter until his chest burns with it.

It hurts to even breathe, sometimes.

“If I ever disappeared one day, in one way or another, what would happen?” Sora asks, and he’s facing away, starring out at the kingdom in a sick, upsetting parody of the first vision Riku saw him in. They hardly ever look at each other, now, the two of them, and only when the other is otherwise too distracted to notice.

His counterpart’s face hardens, suspicious, haggard and drawn, but still here. Still holding on. This, at least, gives Riku hope. “Why? Are you planning on leaving anytime soon?”

“I’m being serious.”

“Well, so am I.”

But it’s still so godsdamned frustrating to watch.

And Riku wants to scream, his fists _ache_ from how hard he’s been clenching them, because he’s losing him—he’s losing _Sora_ , and how could he ever have let it get this far? They’re stronger together—and it’s looking more and more like a battle is coming. A battle which will determine the fates of, well, _everything._

(But in a way, he can understand, can see how easily this could have been _him_ , could have been _them_ —had he let the Darkness win, bitter and angry, their friendship just barely hanging on by a thread—had things not unfolded the way they had, had there not been all those little differences between these men and him and _his_ Sora. Because although these men are powerful and share a love Riku longs for and envies, he knows they didn’t grow up together from toddlers, knows this Riku didn’t slay Sora’s imaginary monsters or protect him from meteor showers. Knows this Sora didn’t have to search whole worlds for the other man, not once, but twice. That this Riku didn’t have to wait for Sora for a year, not once, but twice—to wake up, to come home, to be _found_ —because he _will_ find him.

He knows they haven’t had to fight for each other the same way, choosing each other every day even when it might be easier not to, even when things are messy and complicated (as things with Sora, and yeah, Riku too, tend to be), because deep in their hearts, _they know_.

No matter what they are, or who, or anything like that.

He’s worth it.

 _They’re_ worth it.

And in this moment, he’s glad for it—for all the shit they’ve been through, all the people they’ve faced, all the things that have tried to come between them—Maleficent, the Organization, Xehanort, the Darkness, insecurity, immaturity—because he would take all of that, take all of _Sora_ , whatever he would give him, no matter how little, without thought, without reservation, over _this_.

Sora sighs, shoulders slumped. “Never mind.” He turns to leave—doesn’t see the sudden panic washing over his counterpart’s face, the lightbulb moment, pure understanding, that if he lets Sora go now, that’s the end. No going back. Sora pulls up short, glaring, when the other man reaches out and grabs him by the arm.

“I would search the world for you,” he says, harshly— _finally_. “I would move the earth, the ocean, the sky, if I had to. I would look for you across lifetimes, in light or darkness. I would do anything, become anything, give everything.” Riku can see the way Sora wants to hang onto every word, mouth twisted and uncertain and thin. But still, the other man goes on, fierce and determined and just this side of blinding, “And no matter what, I would find you, and I would bring you home.”

They stare at each other for a long moment—Riku waiting in the doorway with bated breath, heart pounding.

But then, as one, they collapse into each other’s arms, binary stars succumbed to the pulls of their shared gravity, brilliant and heartbreaking and breathtaking in equal measure. They clutch and claw and sob, pressing closer and closer, like they could meld into one if they tried hard enough—and maybe they can, Riku’s sure, with the kind of power they have at their disposal, they could figure something out—chests heaving and frantic as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Sora whines against the mouth pressing over and over against his. “Don’t _ever_ do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry—” Comes shuddering and watery in response. He presses regret to the tip of Sora’s snotty nose, guilt over the wet apple of his cheek where his freckles shine through his skin, loneliness on the curve of his eyebrow, apology to his temple, before Sora tangles a hand in the stray hairs at his nape and yanks him back down to _devour_ his mouth in violent forgiveness—

And Riku, weak and leaning against the doorjamb, well, he just hopes they’re not too late—

But they are.

It starts as a coup, of all things, though Riku isn’t all that surprised. The sun bleeds red and angry overhead as the rulers of this once fair and bright place yield to the wishes of their people. They don’t fight it, are still too raw and mending from everything they’ve already been through, though Riku knows more than a few of the hundreds of people gathered here wished they had. Their blades are only summoned once, wind chimes and metal clanging, and handed over to the woman leading the mob. It’s a peaceful surrender, all things considered.

But it quickly deteriorates from there.

Shouting turns to screaming, and Riku loses sight of Sora and his counterpart in the chaos, watching wide eyed and sick to his stomach as people draw their makeshift Keyblades on each other. The hillside, dead and yellow from the incessant clutches of Darkness, erupts into chaos. People lose limbs. A woman slices clean through one man’s weapon-bearing hand. A man chops another’s head clean off and it bounces down the hillside like one of Wakka’s beach balls—Riku gags, stumbling away in the haze of red. Those few who have magic wield it with frightening ineptness. He sees more than one person burn from a Fira imploding on the caster. And on and on it goes until the dirt is wet and tacky and broken with blood and viscera.

Riku staggers towards where he last saw the two men, tripping over his own feet halfway down the hill, falling, sliding, hands scraping against the soiled ground, and it’s there that he sees it.

Ripping into a corpse’s chest, rooting around inside the exposed ribcage, is a Heartless.

“Shit,” Riku hisses and keeps going.

The further down the hill he gets, the more he starts to see. Shadows and Soldiers and people, all snarling and rabid and violent, blurring together into sharp teeth and claws and Keyblades. He’s stupidly glad, in some small part of his brain not dedicated to getting the hell out of the way, of finding Sora and his counterpart, that nothing can touch him here.

It could be minutes, or it could take hours, but he eventually slips on some stray intestine into a nook of brittle woods where the fighting has thinned some, but where the Darkness has manifested into more powerful Heartless. Darksides puddle up from the ground, the shadows of the wilting trees lengthening, darkening. It’s so loud, screams of people and Heartless and the world itself, wailing, agonized, the tang of iron and magic and sulfur heavy in the air.

And, in the middle of it all, are Sora and Riku.

The other man’s hair has been hastily chopped short, blood gushing gold from a cut above his eyebrow, running down into his eyes, but that hardly seems to impede him as he slashes a giant hand away and twirls around the grasp of another. At his back, Sora dances and spins and shouts, cheeks smeared with dirt and sweat, eyes blazing, wielding the Kingdom Key like he was born for it—and Riku _knows_ he was. Energy surges, a rush of pressure, and a wave of fire explodes out around Sora, a blast of air from the other man sending it into a blaze that incinerates the surrounding trees into ash.

They work in perfect tandem, the two of them, orbiting each other as they fight, guarding the other’s back, existing as extensions of the other, connected beyond the physical plane, and they are bright, they _are magnificent_ —

But it isn’t enough.

They’re too tired. Still too soft and broken, still remembering all the ways they fit together after so many long years apart, still too much of an open wound, for all that it had finally started to heal.

And the Darkness—the Darkness only needs one slip up, one false move, one second of weakness, will take advantage of any little hesitation, any tiny distraction. And it will always be drawn to that which shines brightest.

Riku knows that better than anyone.

“No!”

It feels like Riku’s been punched straight in the sternum, lead dropping heavy in his bones, and he falls, gasping, to his knees, hands curling into the charred earth as he tries to catch his breath—but he can’t, because Sora— _Sora was_ —

There’s a noise of metal screaming, of ice shattering, and a barrier solidifies into existence around the huddled form of his counterpart and... Sora.

Not even barriers can block Riku here, not like this, and he crawls right through it into the muffled, safe interior.

“No, no, no,” the other man heaves, curled around Sora, fragile and broken. Riku swallows around the answering tightness in his own throat as he watches—always _watching_ , fucking _Gods_ —the man press magic, green and glowing, with one hand into the deep, glistening gouges in Sora’s chest and stomach, the other clutching desperately at one of Sora’s. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Please, no.”

“I love you,” Sora says and smiles, blood bubbling up in the corners of his mouth. He closes his eyes, the brilliant shine of them, of the freckled pin prick stars in his face, fades away, until even his skin, usually so dark and bronze and lovely, turns gray and cold.

“No, _no_ —” A wet choking noise, the man pressing desperate, blood stained kisses to Sora’s mouth, his nose, his eye, his forehead, and Riku _hurts_ , angry and frustrated and sad—Gods, why is he here? _Why does he have to be here?_ —he can only imagine what is going through the man’s head, the pain, the regret, the guilt—what use is all that power when he couldn’t even save the love of his life? When he couldn’t protect that which is most precious, the one person who matters most of all?

Riku can’t even bear to get closer, just grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, into the tears gathering wet there and already sliding down his cheeks, can’t help the high, broken noise from slipping out of his throat. Because this might not be _his_ Sora, but any Sora is still Sora, he remembers someone saying once before, and they’re _right_. And now, he’s dead—

A sudden, intense heat flashes against his skin. Riku jolts back as steam rises from his counterpart’s hunched form, energy gathering around him in waves. Unfathomable power, unbearable pressure, a storm building, electricity collating. The eyes glaring out from that face are deep pits, the very light getting sucked right into them in gasping blinks, black holes, mouth twisted into a ragged, howling yell.

The barrier breaks with a startling sound, glass shattering, and the world comes roaring back in, the Heartless swarming, seeking blood, craving Hearts—

But it’s too late.

For everyone.

And with a feeling like an ocean wave crashing over his head, the world ignites around them, the very earth crumbling away around them, earsplitting, wailing, tearing apart under the weight of power, of grief—blinding, searing. His skin is splitting, peeling away from his bones, and Riku can’t even keep his eyes open—

Everything goes black.

Riku wakes up, head pounding, face smushed into the weirdest pillow he’s ever felt before, all earthy and wiry for all that it’s soft in a muted kind of way—and then he opens his eyes, sees the moss curling up and out in a lacey filigree, that buzzing loud and insistent and practically vibrating his eardrums, drilling into his face—

What the fuck?

He literally watched the older man tear everything apart, saw him _break_ everything—the Heartless, the people, the world, himself…

And yet, he’s still here.

Wherever here is, anyways.

With a groan, he carefully climbs to his feet, every part of him sore and achey and sensitive and raw. He is one giant bruise, for all that a quick look shows not even a scratch on him, that he can see. The pain is still there though, just under his skin, deep as muscle, as bone, as marrow and blood—heart deep, soul deep. He doesn’t bother trying to Cure it, knows from past, panicked attempts that he can’t do shit here the way he can do in dreams or the waking world.

(Well, anything except watch, which is basically Riku’s own personal hell. He’s a man of action. He _can’t_ just sit by and watch, but here, it’s all he can do.

He’s so tired. Gods.)

All around him, a wetland stretches off into the distance in all directions, spindly trees shooting up at odd intervals. It smells damp and moldy and full of rot, waterlogged and earthy. Fog clings thin and clumpy to the ground just outside the island of moss Riku’s found himself on despite the sun bearing down right above him.

“Agh.”

He just can’t catch a break, can he?

Picking a direction at random, he takes that first step into the fog, and immediately regrets it as his boot fills with water. Pausing, he takes an intentionally deep breath, wishing for once that he be a little more permeable so he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. He lets himself have a few grudging moments of frustration before he starts trudging through the marshes. There has to be a spell that makes someone water resistant. There has to be. Not that it’d be of any help at this point.

It’s deathly silent, no bugs or birds or frogs, just the sloshing, sucking sounds of his boots getting stuck in the wet and mud hiding out under the fog and reeds.

No Heartless either. Not yet.

Small mercies.

“I hate this, I hate this, fuck,” he grumbles under his breath and almost trips. He’s used to beaches and sand—not this fucking monstrosity of a landscape. Agh.

He walks.

And he walks.

And he _keeps walking,_ Gods, where the hell is he? Does this place even lead to anything at all?

Riku sure hopes there’s a point to all this mess.

He’s got theories about how it _might_ relate to getting Sora back, but nothing conclusive. There has to be a reason why the Gods from his visions were uncanny doppelgängers of Sora and him. He’s a lot more sure about how everything he’s seen seems to relate to his present, and it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Not yet. Later.

After he has Sora back.

But he’s anxious, worried that he’ll have gone through all of this and be no closer to finding Sora than before and—well, he could give up right here and now, if that were the case. It’s almost tempting to just stop and sit in the marsh, water and all, until he becomes a prune and can’t move even if he wanted to. This is supposed to be it, unless Kairi’s heart searching or Roxas and Xion’s memory analysis turns up anything useful, but Fairy Godmother sure seemed confident about her solution—but what if it’s not? What if this all leads to just more pain and misery? Surely, Fairy Godmother and Master Yen Sid and Merlin wouldn’t lead him along like that? Not if they’re all worried about him?

(Not that they had anything to worry about. Riku’s been fine… Just maybe not as fine as he _could_ be, but what the hell did they expect? He misses his best friend. He’s been worried. Fuck, man.)

He pauses, fists clenched, staring blankly ahead.

They wouldn’t, right?

“No,” he says, because hearing it aloud makes it more real, makes him believe it. “No, they wouldn’t. They want Sora back almost as much as I do.”

Almost.

He’s come this far. Been through so much. And if this is what he needs to do to get Sora back, then he does so willingly. Riku would do a whole lot more—he’s not actually sure _where_ exactly his limits are where that’s concerned, and maybe he should be more worried about _that_ , about the lengths he’d be willing to go, what he’d be willing to do, but it doesn’t, because this, at least, he knows: Sora would do it for him too—to get Sora back, to have him be okay and awake and smiling.

He shakes his head and keeps moving. His feet hurt. His limbs are steadily getting heavier the farther he walks, harder and harder to move, but still he slogs through.

He has to believe this is all for _something_.

Because if it’s not, if this was all senseless, he’s not really sure what he’s going to do.

If he can even get out of here.

Maybe he’s trapped.

Is it bad that just thinking that makes him feel numb inside?

He huffs, slaps himself lightly on the cheeks. “Keep it together, Riku.”

It takes him a while to notice, too focused on pushing past the pain, the stiffness of his back and the way his neck has started spasming, muscles jumping and distressed, but now that he has, he’s almost scarily aware of it: it’s getting darker, and the sun hasn’t moved an inch in the sky. Riku bites his bottom lip, swiping a hand against the sweat trickling down his face. The sun has gone from a warm yellow to an angry, muted red, painting everything bloody, the air heavy and soggy with humidity. The sky is darkening in strange counterpoint, stars blinking into existence one by one, trees popping up almost as if by magic, growing closer and closer together until Riku has to climb awkwardly around and between them. He’s tense, Braveheart a finger twitch away from being summoned, keeps his sore eyes peeled for anything, anything at all.

Somehow, despite his caution, he still winds up nearly tripping over someone sitting on a stray, gnarled root, vines crawling up their legs, curling around their arms and chest, binding.

It’s _him_.

He sighs, deep and exhausted and entirely unsurprised. It’s a wonder he’d even gone this long without seeing him.

“I thought you had died,” he says without meaning too, dry and unintentional. But it’s fine, it’s not like the God can hear him anyways. He couldn’t hear him before, through all the years he was forced to endure, useless and silent.

But unlike all the visions where Riku played the part of frustrated ghost, unanswered no matter how loud he shouted, the God looks up, oil slick eyes locking onto him easily, sharp and aware and lined in bruises, as tired looking as Riku feels. Riku almost gasps, manages to catch hold of the impulse before it can follow through. He looks visibly older, almost, in the crinkles split by his eyes, in the white threading through the wild, shorn strands of his silver hair, how his skin seems to stretch taut and brittle over his bones. And that’s such a startling thought, that the God sitting before Riku actually looks _old_ for once, no longer as static and unchanging as Riku had thought.

He’s still wearing the bloodstained robes and rusted armor he had on the day Sora died, the day he tore everything apart, the day everything came to an end.

The day a lot of other things began.

The God smiles, crooked and thin. “Hello, Riku.”

Riku stares, voice lost somewhere below his lungs, unsure of what to even say, how to even respond. Questions clog up in his throat, hissing accusations, demands for explanations—because he can’t help but resent him a little bit, for the things he had, the things he let slip through his fingers. But the thing is, he also understands. Gods does he understand.

Nothing comes out.

(He remembers a time when the resentment would win out.

He’s softened in a lot of ways though. Falling in love with Sora would have that kind of effect, he supposes. You can’t love a man like him and not melt and mold into something better.

How else would you be deserving of him?)

The silence stretches on.

He finally finds the words when the God’s shoulders slump, eyes lowering. “Why?” He asks, ignoring the way his voice breaks, images of Sora’s face, still and bloody flashing through his head. “How?”

“Once,” The God says, quietly, “Once, there was nothing. And then, there was us.” His face twists into a grimace, a lattice work of emotion, of fondness, nostalgia, of pain. Grief. “I fell in love—we fell in love.” Of course we did, he doesn’t have to say. Riku hears it all the same, because of course, they did. It’s inevitabe—Sora, any Sora, is so easy to love. And maybe, just maybe, Riku, any Riku, can be too. “And from our love, came the first world. Daybreak Town.”

“When you live as long as I did, Riku, it gets easy to take things for granted. It’s easy to assume things that have always been there will continue to be so.” The God wipes a dirty hand across his face, nails ragged and cracked with dried blood—Sora’s blood. He pushes himself to his feet, slowly, joints creaking, clinging vines snapping and falling away from him. “I was his protector, for all that he didn’t need it, for all that, at the beginning, there wasn’t really anything he _needed_ protecting from. And I failed. When he needed me most, I failed him, and then I failed him again and let him die.” He takes a step forward, and the ground suddenly flares into light, the world falling away to the familiar, dark abyss and purple stained glass of Riku’s heart station, except—

“This heart station… it’s yours, isn’t it?” Riku asks softly.

Where before it had been blurred, layered in creeping fog, the heart station below their feet is clear and shining, for all that there are cracks still spidering in towards the center. The God in the stained glass is sleeping, head tilted towards the only circled image: his Sora, bright and beaming and looking right at his Riku, eyes glowing amber, the sun of their world, of _his_ world.

“Yes.” The God steps closer. “My advice to you is this, Riku. When you find him, and you will find him,” his mouth curls ever so slightly at the corners, an inside joke only he knows, “keep him close. Keep him close, and never let him go.”

Well, not only him. Riku smirks, just a little bit. In this, at least, he can be confident. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“All the same.” The God’s expression crumples, serious and sad, but there’s a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Good luck, and may your heart be your guiding key.” And he touches Riku’s chest, just over his heart, the tips of his ragged fingers grazing over his shirt ever so gently. There’s a gods-awful wrenching, an intense _tug_ on his heart, a pain bursting white hot through his head—

He grunts, dropping to his knees, and through squinted eyes, sees the glass image of the sleeping God shift, those inky bright eyes opening and looking straight through Riku—except that can’t be right, can it?—before the ground erupts into a flurry of birds.

Riku shoots up in the bed, heaving deep, gasping breaths. There’s a roaring in his ears. His heart pounds under his sternum, fluttering and hiccupping and Gods, there’s still that fucking _tugging_ —but more than that, there are memories crowding around in his head. His brain feels tender and swollen, too big for his skull, double vision making it difficult to see anything. He pushes back against it, tries not to get lost in the God filling in around muscle and sinew, in the marrow his bones, closing gaps and holes he never even knew he had and some he did—the constant soreness of his wrist, of his side, of other wounds and scars, burns away into something faint, softer.

The feeling dissipates quickly as everything rearranges itself, neat and orderly, his memories of _before_ clearly delineated from his memories of _now_ , taking the aches of his muscles, the pain in his chest with it, cool and refreshing, a Cure without casting any magic at all. He’s spilling energy everywhere, can feel the immense pressure of it in the room around him. It fizzles under his skin like pop rocks. He wants to run, to get up, to fly away. He wants to explode. He presses his hands to his chest and focuses on containing it, boxing it up until he doesn’t feel as if he’s about to fly apart at any moment. The energy _swells_ before easing down into a gentle, pulsing roll he can feel down to his bones.

There’s a sudden pinging against his awareness.

He looks up and blinks. The room is an absolute disaster—books have been torn off the shelves, a chair shattered to splintered pieces, stuffing bursting out of the mattress he’s on—and all around him, blue and purple orbs float, drifting along in some imaginary breeze. He can see every dust particle in the air, every color in the light reflecting through the shattered window.

“Oh, my.” Comes a voice—and it takes Riku a moment to place it, to remember who it is. Fairy Godmother. Yes, he remembers now. Where he is. Why he’s there. And there she is, braced against the broken remains of a bookshelf, a barrier spell slowly fading out of sight. “Riku, dear, are you okay?” She asks, voice soft and hushed, awed.

“Never felt better,” he says, and it’s true. He feels strong, stronger than ever before, and he can _feel_ Sora.

Knows, now, that the tugging at his heart _is Sora._

There’s no doubt about it.

He pushes himself out of bed, dizzy for a moment, drunk on the overwhelming sensory input, on the way he can see every whorl and cut in the wood of the floor, can hear Yuffie, Cid, and Leon standing wary and prepared for the worst at the door, knows that the door won’t open because Fairy Godmother put up a spell at some point to make it so—he can practically taste her magic, airy and cotton candy sweet. It’s weird.

He shakes his head, Nightmare’s End practically jumping into existence, excited and happy and entirely _real_ —

(This is no dream. He can _see_ the difference, a film peeled away. The fact that this is a Keyblade that he’s only ever wielded in the sleeping worlds means nothing now because he knows, he _knows_ exactly what it is, how inherently it’s tied to his soul, his soul and the God’s.

The Keyblade is the color of the God’s eyes.)

(He wonders, for a brief moment, if he could summon the gold Kingdom Key and files it away for another time.)

He closes his eyes, focuses on that tether, that tugging bond—stronger than even the Dream Eater link had been—focuses on _Sora_ , and immediately, a keyhole shatters into existence on the far wall, all light and darkness and fractal shards. It takes hardly any will to unlock it, an open door into nowhere expanding out of space like it had been there all along.

“Do you think maybe you should wait, dear?” Fairy Godmother asks, concern evident in her expression.

“Don’t worry,” he says and shakes his head. “I’ve got this.”

And without a backwards glance, he goes through.

Where Riku ends up is empty and full. An abyss not unlike the one that curves around one’s heart station, neither light nor darkness—it’s nothing at all.

He can’t see anything, can’t hear anything or smell anything. There’s nothing above him. Nothing under his feet. He’d think he’s floating, except that he doesn’t feel weightless. He doesn’t feel heavy either. Breathing is difficult but also strangely easy—he can’t seem to keep any air in his lung, but his chest hurts, oversaturated with it. He’s drifting, and not moving at all. It’s all a very confusing, disorienting experience. And for a moment, a moment that stretches limitlessly, a moment that exists within the span of a single second, he almost forgets why he’s there. Forgets who he is.

Forgets everything.

But he’s come too far, and he’s so close. It’s all too easy, after that, to keep ahold of everything.

(As if he could ever forget Sora.)

He listens to his heart, the way it twists and pulls and flutters, drawing along that line that is so faint and hazy in this place—and suddenly, there’s a hand in his, limp and materializing out of nothing. He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ it, a phantom pressure, just barely there, and he _knows these hands._ Knows their warmth even as faint as it is, could trace every scar, every crease. Knows how their palms line up, how the fingers notch perfectly between his. Everything comes into sharp focus—senses suddenly overwhelmed by the sights, the scents, the noise. He clenches his eyes closed against _everything_ and tangles their fingers together, tightens his bruising grip on Sora, raises Nightmare’s End and _yanks_ —

—and breaks the water’s surface, brine thick in his nose and throat. He staggers to his feet, Nightmare’s End dismissed without thought, twisting around before he’s even got his own footing to grab Sora—everything in him cries out, Sora, Sora, this is Sora, _Sora’s here_ —by the arm and the back of his soaked jacket. Sora’s choking, hacking coughs are the greatest things he’s ever heard, the chilled stretch of his skin under his hand the most amazing thing he’s ever felt—he’s living, he’s breathing, he’s here in Riku’s grasp. He can still _feel_ him, impossibly, wonderfully, through that incessantly blazing bond, their Dream Eater Link a singing and joyful thrum braided around it.

Riku’s so happy, he could spend eternity in Sora’s flailing arms, basking in the bond, in _him_ , except he needs to get them to both to the shore of this bright, airy world.

Scala Ad Caelum, he hears, like a whisper in the wind. Daybreak Town, something sadder sighs.

Sora isn’t much help getting there, but he clutches at Riku, fingers digging in, strong, unbreakable, the entire way before collapsing against the stone. Riku drops down beside him, peering at the dark flutter of his eyelashes as his eyes open—blue and amber and beautiful—all of him, all of _them_. Gods, he loves him. Sora smiles.

“You found me,” he says, and Riku feels his voice down to his bones. His heart skips a beat.

He can’t contain a smile of his own, relieved and crooked, as he cradles Sora’s neck carefully, bringing him up enough to press their foreheads together, melts into him, pushes into the hand still twisted into his shirt, Sora’s _everything_ a welcome balm to the past day—the past _year_ , fuck. He’s missed him. He’s missed him so much. “I told you I would.”

Sora laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound Riku’s ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all folks! I plugged some thing in here and there above that might spur on later fics and such, but as it is now, I don't think there will be anymore at this time. Thank you for reading!


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